


The Final Promise

by PipMer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, John Whump, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 09:57:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock’s vow was the last sound ringing in his ears when darkness descended and enfolded him in its embrace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Final Promise

**Author's Note:**

> There are no Series 3 plot spoilers here, although the newly-announced title of the third episode inspired it.

 

 

 

It happened in the blink of an eye.  One minute, they were giggling at a crime scene.  The next, John had a knife to his throat and Sherlock was frozen with his hands raised, a stricken look on his face.

 

“Easy now, Ryder; you don’t want to accidently nick Dr Watson’s carotid artery.  We only have you on theft; you don’t want to go to prison for murder as well, do you?”

 

Ryder’s hand shook under John’s chin.  John felt the knife vibrate against his skin.  He swallowed thickly.  His eyes were wide as they searched Sherlock’s face for a hint of reassurance.  Unfortunately, Sherlock seemed as badly rattled as John felt.

 

“Don’t try nothin’, Mr Holmes, or your little friend here will be goin’ home in a body bag.”

 

Sherlock kept his hands raised, palms forward, as he took two cautious steps backwards.  “I give you my word, Mr Ryder, I’m unarmed and I haven’t called the police.  You’re free to walk away from this; just put the knife down and we’ll let you leave quietly.”

 

John moved his head a fraction to the side, a signal that distinctly meant “No, bad idea.”  Sherlock’s lips pressed into a thin line as he considered the warning, then discarded it.

 

“Look, James – “

 

“How d’ya know my first name?”  Ryder’s voice rose in pitch on the last word.

 

“I’m a _detective,_ it’s my job,” even now a hint of annoyance colouring Sherlock’s voice.

 

“Don’t be a smartarse,” Ryder threatened, bringing the edge of his knife flush against John’s throat.  John winced as a small drop of blood formed and fell to the ground at his feet.  The expression on Sherlock’s face was one he had only seen once before during the years of their acquaintance, and that had been when John had been wrapped with enough explosives to bring down an entire building.  He could only pray that this situation ended as well as that one had.

 

“Would you just – please, just let Dr Watson go?” Sherlock’s voice shook.   John’s hopes for a neat resolution quickly evaporated, leaving behind an icy cold feeling of dread.  Sherlock never resorted to pleading, _ever,_ and the fact that he was doing so now meant that he was hanging onto control by a very thin thread.

 

“That’ll depend, on what’s in it for me?” Ryder rasped.

 

“Well – “

 

Out of nowhere the sound of police sirens pierced the night.  An expressions of horror crossed John’s face, and the look he graced Sherlock with asked _did you notify the police?_ Sherlock jerked his head from side to side, _no,_ eyes wide with fear.   

 

Ryder’s reaction was swift and violent.  Snarling, he twisted John to the side and plunged the knife into his abdomen.  John’s mouth dropped open in surprise.  He grunted in pain as Ryder pulled the knife out and threw him to the ground before turning tail and fleeing into the dark alley. 

 

“JOHN!”

 

In an instant Sherlock was at John’s side, turning him over onto his back.  John gasped, mouth gaping like a fish struggling for oxygen.  Flecks of red formed on his lips. 

 

“Hit – the lung,” John rasped.  “Can’t – can’t breathe.”  He fisted his hand in Sherlock’s coat, trying to anchor himself and prevent slipping into unconsciousness.  Sherlock yanked his scarf from around his neck and gently removed John’s hands from his coat, placing them at his sides.  He pressed the scarf to the wound with one hand while pressing speed-dial with another.  As soon as an ambulance had been dispatched, he tossed the phone aside and relegated both hands to stopping John’s life-blood from escaping his body.  The sirens faded into the night, passing the alley on their way to another location.

 

“Stay with me, John,” Sherlock pleaded, locking eyes with his partner and holding his gaze by sheer force of will.  “You’re going to be okay, just stay with me.  I won’t let anything happen to you.  I promise, everything’s going to be fine.  You just need to stay awake for me, can you do that?  You’ve never let me down yet, don’t you dare start now.”

 

John grunted in reply.  He raised one hand and put it on top of Sherlock’s bloodied ones, giving them a weak squeeze as he tried to communicate his gratitude and something more.  He blinked and fought back against the encroaching mist that was forming before his eyes, obscuring his vision. 

 

An anguished sob escaped Sherlock’s lips before he could suppress it.  He impulsively leaned forward and placed a kiss on John’s forehead.  Before he pulled back he whispered in John’s ear, “I promise you that you’ll live.”

 

Sherlock’s vow was the last sound ringing in his ears when darkness descended and enfolded him in its embrace.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

When he woke it was to pain and drug-induced grogginess.  He winced as a twinge went through his left shoulder at his slight movement.  His thoughts were still floating in the ether somewhere, the remnants of an unusually vivid dream clinging to his awareness.  His brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to ground himself and get his bearings. 

 

He opened his eyes, squinting into the bright overhead light.  He was in hospital, just as he had expected.  What he didn’t expect was a vague sense of loss and a dull emptiness in the pit of his stomach.   The feeling was unsettling, especially since he couldn’t for the life of him pinpoint its source.

 

He shifted his head to take in the rest of the room.  On the end table there was a brand new paperback book, lying face down and open next to a half-full glass of water.  An uncomfortable looking chair was angled towards his bed, and it had a familiar grey cardigan draped over the back. 

 

Harry had been here, and was apparently still somewhere close by.  John frowned.  His sister didn’t read fiction, ever; she avoided it like the plague.  He reached over to get a better look at the book.  He picked it up and looked at the title.

 

_The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes._

A series of images and sensations flashed unbidden into his mind:  Smoky grey eyes brimming with extraordinary intelligence and fond affection.  A coat flapping dramatically against long, striding legs.  A bohemian room with wretched wallpaper and a yellow face smiling out from a cluster of bullet holes.  The kiss of cold metal against his temple while the rest of his body flooded with stark fear.  Waking up to soft curls tickling the back of his neck and two strong arms clasped protectively around him. 

 

John blinked, and the mirage evaporated like mist in the sunlight.

 

His eye caught a pamphlet that was being used as a coaster for the glass of water.  He craned his neck and made out just enough words to know it detailed the benefits of reading out loud to unconscious patients.  He lifted a shaky hand to his temple and tried to rub away the stirrings of a headache. 

 

He squeezed his eyes shut and delved into his mind for his last memory.  He felt the bullet pierce his shoulder, and the grit of the sand as his body dropped.  He remembered offering up a prayer, “Please God, let me live.” Yes, those things happened, John knew that as surely as he knew his own name.

 

But then, juxtaposing itself next to those true memories as if were part of them, a strange yet familiar voice caressed John’s mind as it responded:  _I promise you that you’ll live._

It was not the cold and distant voice of some nameless, faceless god whose very existence was suspect.

 

 

It was a voice that resonated with sincerity, warmth and a degree of intimacy that felt more real than anything in his recent experience.

 

Somehow, it felt like a sacred vow.

**Author's Note:**

> Another thing that inspired this story was Moffat's teaser regarding the coming cliffhanger - I wouldn't call it spoilery, but just in case I put it here in the end notes.
> 
> Moffat's teaser for the series 3 cliffhanger:
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _You’ll be watching the end of the last episode thinking, ‘They wouldn’t stop it there?!’ ‘They wouldn’t stop it there?! Oh my God, they wouldn’t stop it there?!’”_


End file.
